Hillbilly Elegy

reminded me that dogs were a lot of
work and that my family (read: my
mother) had a terrible history of getting
dogs and then giving them away. When
wisdom fell on deaf ears—“You’re
probably right, Gail, but they’re soooo
cute!”—authority kicked in: “Honey, I’m
sorry, but I’m not letting you buy this
dog.” By the time we returned to
Mamaw Blanton’s house, I was more
upset about the dog than about losing
father number two.
I cared less about the fact that Bob
was gone than about the disruption his
departure would inevitably cause. He
was just the latest casualty in a long line
of failed paternal candidates. There was